* * * * * IN wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range, Part of my pain, me-seems, engravéd lies. The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ascent: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Infected minds infect each thing they see. IF I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reason’s law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink. If either you would change your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, By your good help, or in myself, to find. But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reason’s strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain. A FAREWELL. OFT have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart: a word so gentle to my mind, Weakly did seem to paint Death’s ugly dart. But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That parting thus, my chiefest part I part. Part of my life, the loathéd part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death: Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy. * * * * * FINDING those beams, which I must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease. My eyes thence drawn, where livéd all their light, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged in earth, deprivéd of the sky. In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn: